


Let No One In

by Gabri



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Canon - Book & Movie Combination, F/M, M/M, Pitch is Kozmotis and is the good guy here, Seven Deadly Sins, The Guardians are fearling versions of themselves, angst abound
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:02:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gabri/pseuds/Gabri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tsar Lunar is the King of Nightmares. The Guardians are his Fearling court - the Shades, nicknamed as the seven deadly sins and roaming the Earth to spread nightmares in his name. The Dark Ages are here in full force.</p><p>Jack tries to stay above the gloom, but the darkness has a fondness for him. His one ally is Kozmotis Pitchiner, the once-General of the Golden Armies. Life is nothing without a little hope, but in a world where trust kills, something has to give....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm always nervous about setting up an AU...but this Seven Deadly Sins thing has been knocking around in my brain for quite some time.
> 
> So let's get this thing started already <3

He can taste the darkness in the air, a heavy, solid thing that presses down on his shoulders like a blanket. The snow has long since stopped, leaving only vague, gauzy imprints further down their well-worn path. Jack clutches his staff tight to his chest, hovering high off the ground, his eyes flickering to the sky in a manner that betrays centuries of well-learned paranoia.

"They'll know we're here." he whispers to his companion (which may not be entirely true, but there's good reason to be worried and they both know it.) Even so, his tone is oddly casual, light and annoyed. 

Some distance ahead, the white-gold form of the winter spirit's companion cants his jaw, listening. His high, black boots do not falter in step, rhythmically pressing onward on their invisible path. "Don't be afraid." he says, gently. 

"I'm not afraid." Jack scoffs, although that's not entirely the truth, either. His voice drops a notch, hushed, and his companion frowns a little at the change. "But if any part of your plan is supposed to be secret, you might want to make sure _they_ don't know about it. Just a suggestion. You do have a plan, don't you?"

"I assure you I'm not walking aimlessly." the man flips something open in his palm, and Jack dares to hover closer and glimpse a better look, but it's only there for a second before the man closes his hand and whatever it is snaps closed with a metallic _click!_

A ripple of disappointment ticks through him. "What's that?"

"Not of your concern."

"Come on!" he lingers, playful. "You could tell me what you're up to."

"You could tell me your name." the man counters neatly.

Jack opens his mouth, drops an inch or two from his perch in the air, and closes it again. The man doesn't even pause in his step. They've been through this before. He expects nothing less. Still, another hour passes before he finally begins to slow down, and by then Jack is nearly impossible to spot, hidden away by the wind and the trees. 

The man stops, the press of darkness more apparent now. He stares calculatingly at the bloody red crescent of the moon, the unnatural glow that shines a veil of scarlet down on upon the pale surface of the earth. Then, slowly, faintly, he sees it - the first shapes of twisting black, threads of dark sand that curl and unfold. They intersect across the night sky like spun silk, an inky spider's web looking for unsuspecting insects. In this case, of course, the prey is those who are asleep, dreaming.

But there are no good dreams, not anymore.

Quietly, the man lowers himself beside the trunk of a pale birch, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Don't fall asleep." Jack reminds him in a whisper. The noise is slight, distorted helpfully by the wind, but the man can still discern his hiding place from that clue alone - he's camped out in the high branches of a nearby tree, some five yards to the left and high enough off the ground that a normal human being would be fearing for their lives.

The man lifts one finger and presses it to his lips. _Sssh._

Jack isn't sure, exactly, what he expects from this - from following this man, this stranger, who has done nothing but wander and whisper, eyeing the corrupted moon as if hearing some secret voice from the very depths of it's distant throne. Perhaps it had something to do with the very obvious _strangeness_ about the man, which only seemed to increase with passing time. Whoever he was, he was clearly not from any human settlement - Jack could see the signs in his clothing and pale armor, awash in astral gold and glimmering silver like something out of a fairy tale. His sword seemed to give off a rare, living light that felt celestial in quantity.

Even his skin, gold-brown, as Jack thought, the color of dark sand, seemed to have a warmth and light beneath it that was not of this earth. His face, sharp and angular like a birds, seemed riddled with secret lessons. Jack could see the profile of it now, the aquiline nose, the flat, unsmiling mouth, the jaw canted up bravely. But there was a sadness to it to, something more personal and complex than the sadness of the Dark Ages, the fear and nightmarish misery that every human had been weighted down by at some point or another, victimized as they were by fearlings and shadow men.

There was an air to this man that caused something jittery to tug at his insides (he did not dare even think, let alone voice the word 'hope'). Following him seemed to only further that.

But the first rule of survival in these times was this - _let no one in_. He had heard children and adults alike passing on stories of this all-important lesson, tales of corruption and possession caused my misplaced trust. Jack had heard enough stories to last decades, lingering invisibly by shivering throngs of people, watching the horror and despair crack across their faces like fractured ice. Even worse, he had watched, his touch and voice utterly useless to interfere, as children were taken in by the darkness, blackened in body and soul. Some had broken individually, a making of their own accord, crumbled beneath the pressure of the red moon and it's minions. Screams of insanity, madness, the wild, primal fear of evil running free. Others were less than human now, mere husks of their former selves. 

He has never seen anything so terrible as the turning of a soul into a fearling, the clinical replacement of a heart with sulfurous blackness, vapid yellow eyes, the sound of a sobbing, pleading voice morphing into the maddened, churning whispers of a creature of darkness. 

He has tried - and tries still - to fight, to protect, but his power is weak and the world's belief in him is nearly non-existent. The darkness already knows him, already visits him in shapes he cannot seem to banish away.

 _Let no one in_ , the humans say. 

Jack tries not to.

\-----

He had been awed to discover a man who could both see and hear him. He was not, technically, the first creature to acknowledged Jack's existence, but so far the only others who could say the same where made of shadows and hatred. Still, belief did not seem to play a role in the fact that to this man, Jack was a real, living thing, a creature within an impact upon the world, a body that left footprints in the snow. He did not even know who Jack _was_ , or find any familiarity in his cause. 

The man had said, once, "Do only fearlings see you?"

"You see me, and I don't think you're a fearling." Jack had laughed. This much he knew had to be true. The brilliant light that emitted from his sword was not something a fearling could ever stand to touch.

The man had nodded, somewhat regal in disdain, but when he spoke again his voice was low and sad. "Then, am I the first of humanity to see you?"

It had not felt wise to answer that question just then. But privately, a thought had burned inside him with a newness that was both exciting and unnerving, an electric web that constantly picked at his brain.

_I don't think you're human, either._

\-----

He wakes to the man breaking fruit into slivers, a take-along bit of nourishment. Jack watches him scour the earth for troublesome shadow-creatures, the newly risen sun reflecting brilliantly off his armor. He leaves a few slices - part of a mango and some sort of berries - and Jack can only guess that this is supposed to be for him. Food and sleep are not a trouble for him the way they are for others, but he picks at the freshly washed fruit regardless, a rare bit of pleasure creeping into his blood at the rich tang of flavor on his tongue.

The rinds are caked with coils of frost, and he amuses himself for some time by breaking them into pieces, forming icy spikes around them so they resemble tiny maces. Jack tosses them into the air and bats them hard into the distance with his staff, whooping and cheering when they tangle in distant trees. There's some pleasure to be had in the way his companion flinches at the unexpected sound of ice cracking.

"Having fun?" he says dryly.

"The sun's out, isn't it? You have to enjoy it while you can." Jack grins, turning on current of air, and watches somewhat curiously as the wind combs through the man's dark spikes, rustling them up.

"Very admirable, bringing 'fun' to the Dark Ages."

The comment was probably meant kindly, he knows, but this is a sensitive spot that he tries not to indulge, and so it's only the acid that he hears. It stings, unexpected, like a whiplash to the skin, banishing the pleasure of ripe berries and batting snowballs as suddenly as if they had never existed.

Because what Jack knows - _thoroughly_ \- is that he's done little to make the Dark Ages fun. He's tried, god, he's tried everything - but now snow is something that causes families to huddle together or flee for shelter. Snowball fights are a sure way to get hurt. There's danger in rushing over ice, slipping, falling. When he nips at a child's nose, they only shiver and whine.

They can't afford the fun side now, they're hungry and scared, they're in mourning or in hiding or they don't have a drop of faith left to spare. 

"What's that supposed to mean, huh?" he seethes. "I don't see you doing anything to help. You've got enough light on you to kill one of the Shades, and you're not even invisible, so what's your excuse?"

The man stops. Jack grits his teeth and forces himself to look him in the eyes. It's not as easy as it should be - he still expects, despite the circumstances, for the man to look right through him. But their eyes connect and Jack sees the gold discs of irises, knife-sharp and cutting. If he were closer, he thinks he might even see his reflection there.

"The Shades." he repeats, slowly, and Jack huffs out an angry breath.

"Yeah, you know." he gestures uselessly, which only earns him a quizzical look. "The - the fearling royalty. The Shades. There's four of them. Greed, Gluttony..." he ticks them off his fingers. "...Wrath...you've seen Sloth at least, yesterday. He makes rounds like clockwork, giving kids nightmares." Could he really not know? 

Jack lets his hands fall. He feels deflated, exposed, and the man only watches him as if trying to dissect him where he stands. Then, at last, he tears his eyes away, pivoting on his heel to continue walking, and Jack thinks that might be the end of it when he calls out over his shoulder-

"There's more than four."

Jack goes from mid-glide to clattering hard on his heels. Unbidden, the image of the Shades slide through his brain - Sloth's dark, searching sand, first, but more insistently, the frightening face of Wrath with his animal snarl, long ears pressed flat against his skull, the phantom feeling of thick fingers locked around his throat -

"...how _many_ more?" he chokes out.

"At least two." Jack lets the wind tug him forward, fast, closer to the man than he's ever dared to go. He stops at that, one hand twitching instinctively to the golden sword, and Jack sets a good yard of space between them, his heart thudding hard in his throat. "How do you - I mean - are you _sure?_ "

Up close and without the wind to lift him up, the man seems shockingly tall - Jack has to crane his head back just to see his face. He's all angles and gold, a stiffness that speaks of nobility, born and bred. But for the first time, he sees a new flash of gold at the man's collar, a pretty oval on a chain. A locket. The edges are rusted slightly, but even from here, Jack can see fingerprints littering every inch of metal.

He feels floored, dizzy - unexpectedly so, with the vivid and multiplying shadow of grinning fearlings in his brain and the piercing pin of inhuman eyes. It crashes down over him in a wave until a voice joins the mass, commanding with a pressure that speaks of both safety and power. It takes him a moment to recognize the words:

"Don't be afraid. _Do not be afraid._ "

Jack gives his head a shake. "I'm _not-_ "

"They'll feel it." he says, and oh, god, they _would_. He tenses, sucks in a breath, trying to steady himself, but when the man reaches out a hand he can't help but jump back as if burned. The fingers hover there, outstretched, and then slowly both hands go up and palm-out. It's a well-known gesture among humans - the a gesture of peace. "Listen to me, boy, and fear not. Calm yourself."

He can't help but feel annoyed, in spite of his fear. "I am - I'm fine." He pulls his staff in close, nearly hugging it, and makes a point to shoot the man a challenging look. Nerves prickle at his skin like needles. "See? Just fine."

He nods, and Jack smiles faintly. "Very good. Breathe - slow - there you are." the man's voice becomes softer, more soothing as Jack reluctantly obeys. "Deep breaths."

He laughs, only a little hysterically, still breathing deep as he was told. The man's hands slowly come back to rest back at his sides. Jack sees him tensing, looking this way and that, checking for any fearlings that picked up on the small panic attack.

But after a moment, he relaxes, and so does Jack. 

The flat line of his mouth was tugs up slightly, wearily, and it isn't quite a smile but it's something.

"Tell me your name." he says again, gently, and Jack swallows hard and gives him a critical look.

"Tell me _yours._ " he whispers back.

The face softens somewhat, and Jack flinches as that hand reaches out again. It hovers there between them, nonthreatening, an offer. "I am General Kozmotis Pitchiner, once leader of the Golden Armies."

The name nor the title make any sense to him, but somehow, this is fitting. _Of course you are_ , Jack thinks, wetting his lips. "I'm - Jack Frost. I make, uh...snow days."

He forces a cheeky smile, drumming his fingers on the staff. The hand remains out, dark tan fingers opened patiently until it becomes a painful wait and Pitchiner slowly, awkwardly retracts his hand again.

"It's a pleasure, Jack Frost." he begins, and an odd little thrill runs through him out the sound of his own name on someone else's lips. When the Shades say it, it sounds tainted, hateful, like a curse - but now it sounds real, _physical_ , so that Jack has to focus not to tune out the rest of his sentence. "If you wish, you are welcome to properly accompany me to my goal."

"Properly?" Jack repeats, smirking.

"The sneaking around is not at all necessary." It sounds like he's being scolded. Jack raises his eyebrows and regards him from across their small distance. "You'll tell me about the other fearlings." he proposes, not quite questioning. "And your plans."

"And so will you." Pitchiner adds somewhat commandingly, lifting his chin in a way that makes him look every bit a General.

Paranoia says trust is a bad idea, of course, but everything _else_ says...oh, and already he feels like he's going to regret this...centuries of heeding everything as a danger, every tiny shadow as a threat, no room for innocence and trust, as the humans said - let no one in.

But that thing was there again, poking and prodding, that jittery feeling that made him follow Pitchiner in the first place. And when nice feelings were so rare and far-between...how could he possibly say no?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is shorter than I would have liked, but I wanted to get a few choice Kozmotis thoughts down before switching back to Jack and the 'discovery' thread.... 
> 
> In other words, the next chapter most definitely be longer. ;)

They drop their voices when the moon is at it's peek, and even more so when the night sky is crawling with nightmare sand. It's not necessary, nor is it particularly productive - it's fear that needs to be monitored in the presence of this Shade, not the loudness of a conversation.

And yet, even for him, silence is a hard habit to break when Sloth makes his nightly rounds.

There's something humbling about his power, the changeable vastness of his shape, liquid-black and dominating. Shadows have always been constant in their nature to swell and shrink, and their aftermath is undeniable - the corruption, the fresh waves of fear, distant moans from tormented children. Darkness is _infectious_ , and Sloth is just a product of that. Kozmotis knows this.

But as they rest, he closes his eyes briefly and remembers what this Shade once was. 

Small, brave. Burning fiercely. A star of a smile, so dazzlingly bright that it left aftershocks behind closed eyelids. It feels like fiction now, that precious memory, flickering and dim and perhaps even unreliable, but there is truth in there somewhere that he doesn't want to - _can't let himself_ \- forget.

The wind picks up, and the fragile sound of a familiar gasp travels to him like a secret letter. He straightens, awake and alert, but a moment later it's owner has quieted himself. Jack is still a child in most ways, despite the inevitable growth that years of survival has drawn from him, and even the bravest child will find himself shivering in the dark at one point or another.

"Jack," he says, too soft to wake but questioning all the same.

"You better not be sleeping," Jack whispers back, the helplessness in his voice perfectly schooled back into it's usual playful front. He glimpses the winged corner of a frosted cloak as the winter spirit leans out of his tree. "Tell me you're awake."

A channel of nightmare sand curls through the sky above them, lengthening out in it's search for dreamers. Kozmotis watches it unfold with a feeling close to pity. "I'm awake." he murmurs.

"You sure? I thought I saw your eyes close." There was a note of warning to his voice, albeit a taunting one. Kozmotis hears rustling fabric, the creaking of a branch as the boy moves.

"I assure you, Jack, I'm perfectly alert."

"Because -" and suddenly he shifts, carried swiftly by the wind, and despite himself Kozmotis doesn't spot him until he's _close_. "- if I have to wake you, it might get a little _chilly_. Let's just say there'd be snowballs involved..."

He blinks several times to take in the image - Jack is a about a yard away - _upside-down!_ \- hanging from a branch by the cradle of his legs. His cloak is completely flipped, showing the pale white and brown vest and creating a sort of threadbare frame for his mischievous smile. 

He looks.... _young._

Impossibly young. 

Kozmotis thinks of a different child, a different face, and forces the thought from his mind before it can take root and blacken. "Do _not_ startle me like that--" he begins instead.

"Okay, okay," Jack swings a little to test his balance. "I was just checking."

He smiles and drops, the wind curbing his fall so that he lands gracefully on his feet. Kozmotis holds a hand out, an unrealistic offer to steady him considering their distance, but all the same Jack flinches back a step and it's faint, very faint, but it's also very telling.

"I'm good." Jack assures laughingly, glancing up through the net of trees. Black sand shifts and flows like tiny rivers. The red moon paints a bloody highlight on their channels. His mouth is twisted somewhat when he looks down again, rolling his staff between his hands. Kozmotis can see the frost permeated deep into the wood, thicker in the places where the winter spirit's palms smooth over repeatedly. 

"You said you'd tell me," he prompts, and when Kozmotis doesn't reply, he flickers his eyes up to the sky for emphasis. "About where we're going, and about the fearlings..."

"Are you quite sure now is a good time to begin?"

Jack's mouth quirks, as if he's been told a joke without a punchline. "It's as good a time as any."

 _Unfortunately so_ , Kozmotis thinks, but he gestures all the same. Jack leans in, sober. There's something reverent about this secret, like a prayer for select ears only. "Sanderson was first," he begins, and a dark brow furrows in response, blue eyes narrowed down to slits. 

"Sand- _what?_ "

"Sanderson." Kozmotis repeats patiently. "That is the name of the man behind Sloth. Though he won't answer to it now, let alone identify it as his own, but the fact remains."

Jack's mouth is open slightly. He looks spooked, questioning, and already Kozmotis can hear the laugh waiting on his tongue. "How do you....have you talked to Sloth?" Now he does laugh, although it's a startled sound, forced. "I mean, he's not exactly the friendliest guy out there--"

"He wasn't _always_ called Sloth. And he wasn't always a fearling." He raises his hands cautiously, because Jack is starting to pace and while the initial rejection is typical, there's a dawning horror in his eyes that's far more dangerous. "None of them were."

It's like watching a story play out across his face, the surface ripples on a lake too deep for him to fully understand. Jack chews his lip, bright eyes scanning aimlessly in thought. The staff in his hands goes still, then taps hard against the ground, leaving tiny coils of frost in the earth no bigger than the width of a coin.

"I...I thought of that," he admits gruffly, fixing his gaze low upon the blooms of white, "Because I've seen kids get turned before. But they never turn into anything like _them_. They go...flat, you know? Flat and wispy, and dark. Like the fearlings you see crawling around, looking." He makes a jittery motion with his fingers, like a scuttling spider. "Sloth isn't like that at all."

"Sanderson was not a child," Kozmotis notes grimly, "Nor was he human, or common in any way. But as far as I can determine, the defining factor among fearling royalty is not their heritage, but the fact that they were in possession of an uncommon power, and were therefore found worthy to retain their form-"

"-- _worthy?_ " Jack repeats tightly.

"-to use that power for a darker purpose."

"But look at him - he's long gone." He rakes a hand through his pale spikes anxiously, huffing out a breath. "And so is anyone else they choose, right? All they have to do is turn you into a fearling, and boom-" his fingers snap neatly, a sharp sound in the brittle air. "-lights out--"

"It's not that easy, Jack."

"Is that what you think? I've seen it _happen!_ " his voice climbs a notch. "I've seen them do it - it only takes a second!" There was a panic in his eyes, a helplessness that Kozmotis was taken aback by. This was no ordinary, logical fear, but something taught through experience, something inherit and personal that spoke volumes of past involvement. 

_Past involvement...._

As if on queue, A hissing falls over them, faint whispers that churned and curled like river rapids. The darkness became thick, sentient, a suffocating press that dug it's icy fingers in and forcibly pulled the shivers out in long, spiny threads. Kozmotis leaps to his feet, and Jack, trembling, steps quickly out of range of his outstretched hands.

"Do not fear!" hisses Kozmotis. "Calm yourself!"

"I'm trying...!" Jack insists, eyes going wide at the telltale change in the air. He wraps his arms tight around his middle, spine bending like a bow, and Kozmotis has to resist the urge to grab the boy and force him upright again. Courage lives in details, in a straight back and lifted chin, in a resolve to try when chances dwindle into negatives - but these, he knows, are lessons to expect from his trained soldiers, not a solitary child conditioned by fear.

A glimpse of lamplight eyes peeks out from the darkness, then darts away in a blurry streak. Kozmotis draws his sword in a rush, holding it ready between the two of them and immediately flooding the air with pure, white light.

"Breathe," he orders, drawing himself taller and eyeing the small band of fearlings. "You're safe with me." The yellow eyes break through the darkness in greater numbers, but wisely they keep their distance, heeding the celestial glow of his sword. "Think of something comforting."

"Right." Jack laughs somewhat hysterically, clutching his staff defensively and swiveling to keep his sights on the fearlings. His eyes are still wide, but Kozmotis sees a fierceness rooted there, and his faith in the boy strengthens. "Like what, exactly?"

"Family." The word bursts from him before he give it proper thought. "Home."

In a hoarse, frustrated whisper, almost too faint to catch: "I don't _have_ \--"

"You do. I swear you do." The fearlings circle like hungry sharks, daring to close in further with each rotation. Jack swings hard at a single sulfurous black shape that tries to dart in around his ankles. The creature freezes, white legs of spidery ice crackling over it's shoulders, then twists and vanishes on the spot, leaving only a shell of shattered frost in it's wake. 

Kozmotis feels the temperature drop in time with Jack's small burst of power, and spares a moment to be impressed.

But a moment, only.

"Get down!" he commands, and Jack spins to give him a look of alarm, but when Kozmotis raises his sword high he hastens to comply. A glow pulses from the core of it, splintering and extending until the two are surrounded within a bauble of light. The fearlings hiss and twist in response, most curling up and disappearing upon touch, some turning tail entirely and fleeing into the shadows. A few braver ones dare still to attack, writhing just outside the self-made shield like inky eels, their long-fingered hands held high.

Kozmotis lunges and slashes, slicing across their bodies with practiced composure, the sword guiding his way like an old friend. The creatures fizzle and collapse upon contact, their dark shapes curling and shrinking in the spread of holy fire.

 _Simple_ , he thinks.

The victory is quick and strangely hollow. The sword swishes neatly to a finish, filling the space around them with the sound of wind-sliced whistling. Below, Jack makes a dazed noise and pushes himself up on his elbows.

"How...?" he whispers, staring up at the light-bathed blade. Their breathing rings in sharp, greedy for the newly cleansed air. Kozmotis switches grip to offer a companionable hand, which Jack barely glances before pushing stubbornly to his feet again. 

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah--"

"You're certain."

"I'm fine." Light does justice for the boy's face - bleaches the shadows beneath his eyes, highlights the sparkle in his eyes - but it's not enough to disguise the grimace slowly deepening on his pale face. "I'm.... _sorry_."

Kozmotis nods. Double-checks their surroundings. When he straightens again, he finds Jack staring intently at the sword, his face awash with longing.

"It's best we move." He sheaths the weapon carefully, bringing the spotlit brilliance down to a glimmering glow. He expects questions, now. Protests, even. But the dimming of the light closes something within the blue depths of his eyes, and soon the boy has grudgingly lengthened the distance between them, hopping swiftly upon the current of the wind to hide in the spaces where Kozmotis can't see.

\------

The fearling incident and the talk of Sloth's identity have given Jack something to think about. And for the next hour or so while daylight claims it's rightful place, that's exactly what he does. Drifting along in the higher reaches of the sky, vanishing behind low clouds every so often, skimming lower with his staff tucked behind his arms like a sling. His feet never touch the ground.

"I meant what I said," Kozmotis calls, not looking up. "It's not so easy to be turned."

Silence.

"The darkness cannot force itself upon you. There has to be a space to fill first, an weakness to welcome them in."

 _That_ gets him a response. "I'd never --!"

"I know," Kozmotis interrupts, "I believe in you."

Then there's a clumsy, unexpected clatter as Jack stumbles back to earth, and he doesn't need to turn to see the winded look on the boy's face.

... _ah_ , he thinks sadly, _of course._

Interesting, how a sword or an offered hand cannot keep him steady, but a single sentence can steal the breath from his lungs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's violence of a more graphic nature in this chapter, and there will be in later chapters, too. I've changed the tags to match. Please tred carefully.

He doesn't need to sleep (just one of the perks of being immortal) but even if he did, there would only be Sloth's creations there to greet him. So he takes the only dreams he can - the daydreams - and secretly swaddles them tight against his heart like a mortal mother with her child.

It _used_ to be the children he dreamed of, until the children began to hate him and their symbol turned from comfort to neglect - cursing the cold, crying in the snow, they had more fun when he was gone than when he tried to stir up their smiles. So for years after that it was the frost he treasured instead, the freedom of the wind - tiny pleasures that were his, at least, intimately and permanently intertwined within the core of his very being.

( _Let no one in, the humans say._ )

Next is the light. It's something he'd seen before in tiny doses, natural versions like torches and campfires - but that sort of light had the side effect of lengthening shadows, drawing them out and making them deeper. But _this_ light, this new beauty was brighter, cleaner, full of the sweet warmth of an unknown embrace which transcended all natural preference for his namesake cold.

( _there has to be a weakness first, the man assures him, but Jack knows he's already started to unravel, knows there must be cracks in the ice somewhere, deepening and dividing in jagged splinters until it's only a matter of time before he's shattered_ )

Last is the daydream he didn't mean to keep, the moment he didn't expect but replays in his mind again and again. It's a line that's deeply personal, but more importantly, _familiar_ \- he can taste it on his tongue like he's said it before, like he's _heard_ it before, like it's carved into his heart--

( _I believe in you!_ )

\--too deep under the skin to be safely examined. 

And _that's_ the part that makes him worry.

Because that's _dangerously_ deep, that feeling - and although it's good, ( _really good, incredible, like the sound of laughter that isn't just his_ ) he's not used to being handed happiness so directly.

What if it's a trap? 

What if it's _not?_

There's something new and exciting (and admittedly a little scary too) about sleeping things blinking back awake. Jack's never known who he was, never known what he's been meant for, but if this is what it's going to feel like--

( _let no one in, the humans say_ )

\--then, is it so _bad?_ \--

"Stay alert," a voice breaks into his thoughts. Kozmotis Pitchiner is walking briskly a short distance below with his head turned down, and Jack hovers and squints to see a rusted shape sitting open for inspection his palm.

"What's that?" he swoops down low, not quite over his shoulder but close enough to see the neat parting along his black shards of hair. Pitchiner has a high collar, prim and proper, but this time he can't see the gold chain hung around his neck, and that's...different. 

( _he wants to ask, but would that be weird? is it considered opening up ask your companion about their randomly hidden golden locket?_ )

"It's a compass," Pitchiner says, clicking the rusted thing closed.

"Ookay. And we're headed...where, again?"

"To an old village." Pitchiner clears his throat, pocketing the old compass as Jack circles on the wind to face him from the front. "A place few have seen in person. I expect there could be company - fearlings, maybe, or even children."

( _he scans the pale garb for signs of the locket - nothing - but maybe it's underneath, metal on skin, resting just beside his heart. He can't imagine that Pitchiner threw it out - why would he? - so it's probably just hidden, just hidden...._ )

Jack frowns faintly. "Why this village? There's plenty of villages."

( _why did you hide it? he doesn't ask_ )

"Because this one is special." Pitchiner raises his eyes, looking past Jack and into the distance. He twists a little to follow the gaze and sees a wide stretch of dark river drawing near. "It's a secret location, one that was considered very precious."

"You mean...a safe haven." He says it slowly, testing the concept out as he goes, because there's something off about the idea of Pitchiner and all his astral light cooped up in a safe place instead of using that power to burn holes through fearling hordes.

"It was, once. But now it's anyone's guess." he tilts his head as they approach, the sound of moving water dulling his voice just slightly. Jack glides fast to dart over the river surface, bending down with a gleeful cackle to see his own choppy reflection - pale, wind-blown, grinning from ear to ear. His cloak billows around him like a dark cloud.

Pitchiner starts to walk, and--

"Wait!" 

...and immediately goes still. Jack still isn't used to this part, no matter how many times he tests it out - the part where he speaks up and Pitchiner actually _hears._

"Yes?" he prompts politely, one foot poised to land over the water as if it were as solid and safe as land, and Jack would find the compliance charming if it his intentions weren't so ridiculous. "Do they teach you to swim in General school?" he says derisively. "You know there could be something dangerous in there, right? Like a current--"

Pitchiner takes one slow, indulgent step back. "I believe I'll be safe."

"What happened to 'stay alert?'" Jack gingerly lowers himself mid-air to give the very surface of the water a swipe with his staff. Frost unfurls over the liquid in hopeful ferns, cracking in the water's movement before reforming again, thicker, new.

"It is said that this hidden village is accessible through faith." Pitchiner says slowly, following every building motion with flickers of his pale gold eyes. "The there path is straight, and obstacles can be walked through or over."

Jack refrains from voicing his doubt with a sneaky grin, letting the wind pull and guide him over the river as he works. The ice forms in layers, resisting the pull of water with every new coat until soon a winter-white makeshift bridge is etched upon the river surface. "In case you forgot," he says, jabbing a thumb at himself proudly, "I have a few tricks up my sleeve, too. It's no golden light sword, but it comes in handy."

He beacons him forward eagerly. Pitchiner stares at the bridge for a long moment, a crease forming at his brow, lips pursed slightly, and Jack can't help but feel an unfamiliar pleasure at that - it's not often he gets to show off his powers like this, let alone without a reaction that doesn't involve miserable disinterest.

Finally Pitchiner concedes with a nod, and Jack can't wipe the grin off his face at the sound of his grateful 'thank you'. He watches with bated breath as the man balances one dark boot upon the ice, arms held precariously out for balance. His steps are purposefully balanced, straight and fearless.

 _He trusts me_ , Jack realizes, and the thought comes sharp and unexpected. Pitchiner wavers slightly the halfway mark, grunting as his boots slips an inch upon the edge. Jack flies closer to him, closer than he's ever allowed himself before, fretting over the structure of the ice to hold him.

"Almost there," he reassures, then laughs suddenly at the would-be-patient look that Pitchiner fixes upon him. He raises his hands again, and Jack dances back out of his reach, and soon enough the thin, crisp sounds of his footsteps have gone flat upon reaching the other side.

It's so simple, that victory, but for those few minutes that his handwork supported the weight of another human body it was like a breath of new life, a tiny glimpse at his purpose. He feels strangely light, strangely _important_ , his stomach full of fluttering like the beating moth wings.

"See?" he prompts.

"Yes. Well done." Pitchiner exhales, and Jack soaks in the compliment as if it were a ray of precious light.

\------

Funny to think of, the way he's unused to praise. 

It's such a small thing, those two words, but to him it is like a gift, a invaluable treasure, something new and wonderful and rare.

Soon Pitchiner begins to walk again, checking the rusty compass as he goes.

And Jack, voiceless and dizzy, begins the process of wrapping up every detail of the moment until it's imprinted upon his brain like a fingerprint. 

( _Dark boots on a white bridge. The precise angle of his nod. He replays it in his head, over and over: the sound of a river in white noise, ice chiming underfoot, the strong thrum of Pitchiner's voice; low and steady and approving._ )

\------

Their path leads slowly to a mountain terrain, jagged and splintery and tangled with thorny trees. Jack weaves through the wide spaces between each trunk, letting the flat end of his staff clatter against random swatches of bark to coat them with swirling ferns of frost.

The sky goes rosy with the setting sun, then dark crimson and finally midnight black. He's not fond of watching the moon rise, but Pitchiner checks on it habitually as he slows, the corners of his mouth going tight.

If Jack pays attention, he can see that Pitchiner _does_ sleep sometimes. It's frightfully short and motionless, upright like a strictly trained guard. But as far as he can tell, it involves no nightmare sand. He hasn't asked about it yet, isn't sure if it's a smart thing to prod about: Pitchiner has never seemed human to start with, and Jack himself forsakes sleep entirely. 

Maybe it's normal, for him.

Sloth is not yet upon the sky when Pitchiner's steps begin to slow. Jack trails lazily behind, but it's then that something glinting catches his eye in the distance of their fading footsteps. Small and metallic, laying prone upon the dusty ground - he can't quite make it out, but...

He checks Pitchiner's collar to be sure, but there's no sign of the golden chain where that mysterious locket hung. Jack can't resist making sure - it could be hidden, but it's perfectly possible that he dropped it in the dirt, too busy in his trek to notice the missing weight around his neck.

It should only take a moment, flying back to investigate. 

\----

( _Outwardly, he's just being careful, just trying to help_

_but if he's really, really honest with himself, he does want to know what that locket is guarding. He wants to know what sort of memory Kozmotis Pitchiner treasures enough to press into a golden cage, what sort of secret he feels the need to keep laying cold against his heart. He wants to hold it in his hands, to line those blurry fingerprints up and understand that depth of them._

_Sometimes what he doesn't admit can be just as dangerous as his carefully-studied paranoia. He's learned to fear this vice over the years, having seen the consequences, the many white-eyed faces hiding hungry in it's shadow._

_But Greed is a devious creature, and just because he avoids her doesn't mean that from time to time she won't find ways to sneak back in._ )

\----

Jack lands neatly beside the gold piece, tucking his staff behind his back as he bends to grasp it.

At the last moment, his fingers flinch away. 

It's not the locket. Nor is it a piece of scrap metal or a bauble of discarded jewelry. He recognizes this coin, has seen it countless times through the haze of a child's window, tucked secretly into pockets, dancing in a flash of shining gold between the dark knuckles of a Shade.

_No--!_

But there's no time to flee before a black, feathery figure is barreling into him, hands like talons gripping tight around his arms and tackling him in one tumbling, rolling mess into the thorny embrace of a nearby tree. Jack hits the ground hard enough to force the air from his lungs, his head slamming with a sickening _crack!_ against the trunk. Dazed and winded, he feels the small, sharp hands grasp at his waist and pull him down, pinned flat against the dusty earth like a sacrificial offering.

The staff is kicked away, spinning out of reach, and a moment later the predatory weight Greed's lean, inky body is pressed tight upon him. Jack opens his mouth and feels the cold press of a blade jam itself under his chin.

"Hi Jack!" chirps a high, eager voice. "It's been a while! I really wouldn't scream if I were you."

He gasps, thrashes, struggles to free himself from her weight, but the blade only presses tighter until he can feel the skin about to give under it's pressure. Greed hums lightly, waiting, and Jack tries desperately to catch sight of Pitchiner, but it's not use - she's tackled him too far off the path for him to see. 

Blind panic and fury well up inside him, the familiar rush of instinctual fear, of knowing what comes after being trapped. Already he can feel the long, spiny reach of shadows slinking in to help hold him, natural and effortless in the dead of the night. Greed eases up on him slightly, grinning, and Jack sees her terrible face in full.

Once upon a time, those features could have been beautiful, but now they are twisted with malice and corruption. Her cheeks are pale gray, shadowed by long spider-leg lashes, her violet pin eyes sharp and crazed like a bird's. Black feathers lay like a second skin, downy and bristling, tipped with silver and spots of fresh bloodshed. The spiny crest bristles in time with her smile, shark-like and deathly, and Jack has seen the jagged grins of Shades before but never with teeth like _that_ \-- each one is tiny and pointed like razors. It's a one-of-a-kind leer, the hungry smile of a carnivore. 

"Open your mouth." she says sweetly, that greedy smile never leaving her face. "And no biting, remember." The blade shifts slightly as she frees a hand to explore with, swiping a black thumb over his lips as he quickly presses them tight. She clicks her tongue and pries, digging her fingers in roughly, and then the blade presses up, up under his jaw, and Jack has to force himself to relax so her sharp nails don't slice open the inside of his cheek.

"There you go," she purrs, mockingly approving, and her fingers hook into his mouth, tilting his head back carelessly as she squints to peer inside. He hates this part the most - the glee on her face, the little noises of pseudo-wonder and happiness when he knows well that she's long gone from those feelings. It's a violation on it's most basic level, and Jack feels like he's been taken apart and dissected, his jaw forced painfully open, trying not to gag as her hands pry to back to his molars, baring the bone for her studious eyes.

"Oh, they're as bright as ever!" she whispers gleefully, and though her weight is comparably light, the press of darkness that accompanies is suffocating. "Look how beautifully they shine! You're taking good care of them..." the blade shifts from laying flat to angled, not against his jugular but stretched sharp across the vulnerable column of his throat. "...I _want_ them..." she whispers longingly.

And then the blade begins to press down, and a white-hot pain spikes up unexpectedly. He feels blood well up, just a drop or two at first, but it slides thickly over his flesh and Jack's brain goes white with horror as fury and fear reach a new crescendo--

She's never - _she's never done this to him before_ , she's never actually sliced the blade in and kept _going_ , and he can see her face swimming before him, so calm and unconcerned, longing for her shards of bone, for her beloved prizes. Jack hisses and whimpers, baring his teeth at the pain, trying to press himself into the ground to get away, because she's serious, isn't she? _She's serious, she's actually going to decapitate me--_

"No," Jack strains, gasping in terrified breaths, "No, you need me--!"

_You told me you needed me!_

The blade stops, no longer pressing but still wet with blood, and the pain of metal idling in flesh is as unwavering as a brand. Greed cocks her head, looking every bit a bird even with her papery wings folded flat against her back. "I _do_ need you." she says, thoughtfully. "But I need my fairies, too, and _they've_ never complained about being split apart, have they?" She speaks soothingly, like a mother with his best interests at heart, and Jack can't help but feel hatred, feel anger, because she has no right to sound like that when her blade's wet with his blood. "Trust me, Jack. You'll be just as good in pieces, okay?"

Greed swipes a hand in, and he can't help but flinch back. For a moment he's positive she's reaching for his mouth, ready to pull teeth in her impatience to own, but instead her palm rests at his forehead, stroking back the white bangs there. He's breathing in harsh, trying to ignore the sharp pain that every breath out carries against the blade but at the same time numb to every other sensation.

"Don't worry," Greed soothes. "You'll find it's not so bad upon breaking. And once you're nice and black, we'll even sew you back together again. Good as new. _Better._ " She strokes his temple lightly, and the expression of her face is one of family, of a companion in the darkness, and somehow that's the worst part of all, that fact that he knows what she has in store, he's always known, always understood that his fate would be one worse than death. 

_Worthy_ , like Pitchiner said.

Her blade presses in again--

_No, nononono-_

\--he can feel his breath hitch against steel--

 _I don't want to be one of you!_ He can feel the sheer _wanting_ of darkness in her like a cloak over his desperate pain. He can hardly focus, barely noticing when Greed perks up, canting her head at something in the distance...

And then she _growls_ , every feather on her body prickling up like spines, her razor teeth bared, slim shoulders hunched and defensive. Jack's never seen her like that before, never seen that ugly panic on her own face, and the fierceness of it leaves him stunned.

Then he hears it - the thing she must be reacting to, distant but bell-like in clarity:

_"Jack?"_

...it's a voice.

It's _Pitchiner's_ voice.

Her sword draws away fast, and Jack, still pinned, struggles anew with the shadows, a wild flare of hope at the sound of his companion's call coursing through his body like adrenaline. Greed stumbles off of him in a rush, not yet flying but hunched over, hiding. Her eyes dart into the distance as the voice calls out again, commanding and surprisingly powerful. 

_"Jack? Jack Frost!"_

He can almost _hear_ her thoughts: judging how much time she has, the level of her strength, the wisdom of acting now as opposed to later. And when she looks at him again, he can see that hatred there, as much disgust and resentment as he's ever seen one of the mighty Shades allow themselves to display.

" _You think you're safe with him, do you?_ " she whispers, and her voice is different, not high and trilly like before but primal and rough. "You don't even know who he's _working_ for, do you? Have you seen the name inscribed on his sword?"

Jack goes rigid. He can hear Greed laugh nastily in response, a spitting, inhuman sound. His neck prickles idly where the wound touches air - he can feel the ice in his blood working sluggishly to seal it over again.

_What name...?_

" _Jack...!_ " 

The shadows are letting up, slowly relinquishing their grip upon his body, but Jack couldn't move if he tried. Her words wash over him, paralyzing him, and it takes a moment for his body to feel _real_ again, whole and uncontrolled.

He takes that moment to lunge for his staff, and she immediately rushes to the sky in a blur, her wings beating in a flurry. Jack sees her glance again in the distance, eyeing the golden glow of Pitchiner's approaching light the same way he's seen human children contemptuously and fearfully eye the red moon.

And then she's gone, melted into shadow and air and leaving only fresh blood and bruises behind. Jack stumbles, hisses, presses a hand to his bleeding neck. The wound is shallow, but the thickness of blood on his bare skin makes his chest go tight. He pulls back his hand and winces at the color on his palm, a congealing mess of red dark enough to be black.

" _Jack Frost!_ " Pitchiner calls, " _Answer me!_ "

 _I'm okay_ , he tries to say, but his mouth feels numb and he can't stop running his fingers over his staff now, feeling the reassuring weight of it safely back in his hands. The wood quickly goes dark in places from the sticky blood on his palm, and it takes some self-control not to recoil from that, too.

" _Jack!_ "

 _She had to be lying_ , he thinks, _of course she was lying. She's a Shade. Shade's lie. I'm okay now. I'm okay._

"I'm okay." Jack manages at. "I'm okay, I'm okay." He whispers it heartbeat-fast, quavery at first, then gradually stronger, calmer, and only when the words sound believable does he dare to answer Pitchiner's call.


End file.
